


Good Touch, Bad Touch

by chief_johnson



Series: Little Devils [23]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Child Abuse, F/F, Gen, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: You can't take it home with you. Olivia learned that the hard way after years in SVU. But when Jesse's new best friend makes an unnerving request during a sleepover at the Rollins-Bensons', the job follows Olivia home once again. Finding a balance between captain and mama bear is never simple. Devilishverse.
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Amanda Rollins
Series: Little Devils [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455775
Kudos: 23





	1. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't take it home with you. Olivia learned that the hard way after years in SVU. But when Jesse's new best friend makes an unnerving request during a sleepover at the Rollins-Bensons', the job follows Olivia home once again. Finding a balance between captain and mama bear is never simple. Devilishverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, I've had this fic up my sleeve for months and held off on posting because it contains major spoilers for "Saving Grace." Now that that one is finished, I'm eager to share this one. It's on the short side (for me), aka just over 13,600 words, but I wrote it in two parts so I'm posting it that way too. It's not really a Valentine's Day story, but I like sharing fic on holidays, so. A few things: I'm introducing a couple of new original characters in this story; how much they'll be included in future fics I can't say for sure—depends on their reception and whether I can fit them in. In any case, please be gentle, the plot and the characters are deeply personal to me, and I wrote it needing some catharsis. Also, Amanda isn't as involved in this one as much as in my other fics, but she is there. Just... a bit preoccupied, as you'll see. (Hint: This takes place around the same time as chapter 7 of "Saving Grace.") **TW** for child sexual abuse.

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[ ](https://imgur.com/2HrUaNh)

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**Part 1**

**. . .**

The puking had finally given way to snoring, and Olivia chuckled to herself as she gently eased the door shut behind her. For such a small person, her wife could certainly regurgitate meals and saw logs with the best of them. The bearlike noises coming from the bedroom and the bucketful of upchucked tomato soup were irrefutable proof—Amanda Rollins-Benson never did anything halfway, including pregnancy.

It was perfectly normal "morning" sickness, according to the OBGYN. "Perfectly normal my ass," Amanda had grumbled after the appointment, slouching miserably in the passenger seat of Olivia's Ford Explorer. Her belly barely even distended the seat belt yet (her breasts were another story), the baby within about the size of an avocado.

They had a running joke that they would name the kid after whichever fruit, vegetable, or legume the doctor compared her to that month. So far, Poppy (seed) was Olivia's favorite; Amanda preferred Bean.

"I was never this sick with Jess. Why do you hate me, Avi?" The last part had been addressed to Amanda's abdomen, the detective's long hair draped over her ample bosom as she pouted at the unborn child below. "I'm giving you a warm, comfy place to grow. At least let me eat. It's all for you, kid."

Negotiations had failed. Little Avocado—or Baby Guac, short for guacamole, as Amanda sometimes referred to her—was not interested in cutting her mama any slack. Or her mommy, for that matter. Olivia had been relegated to nursemaid and actual maid over the past several weeks. She didn't mind it; in fact, she reveled in pampering her pregnant wife, who seldom let her get away with such treatment otherwise. Why, just a few moments ago, she'd been seated at the end of the bed, rubbing Amanda's poor aching feet. It was a service Olivia herself received on the regular, but rarely got to provide.

The vomit was less appealing. And the lack of sex (that's how she knew Amanda felt truly horrendous, her disinterest in most bedroom activities other than sleep and being spooned to sleep). But the reward they had to look forward to in five more months was well worth the effort they put forth now.

She reminded herself of that as, cringing, she dumped the mop bucket filled with garish red vomit into the toilet, flushed it down, and rinsed the plastic container under the bathtub faucet. Making a mental note that the wastebasket with the plastic bag inside, which she'd left next to the bed for her wife, was an easier clean-up and far less graphic option, she washed her hands with a dollop of Dove and nearly leapt from her skin at the sound of a piping voice in her ear.

"Mommy, can Jillian and me take a bath with you?"

"Geez—" Olivia swiveled around on the edge of the tub, swallowing the remainder of the oath when her eyes landed on Jesse and Jillian, the first-grader's new best friend from school.

The little girls had finagled their first sleepover out of their unsuspecting mothers at 3:30 pick-up that afternoon, while Olivia was still at work and Amanda was too exhausted and suffering from self-diagnosed pregnancy brain to say no. Jillian's mother, a young divorcée with only one child, had been more than happy to send her daughter home with "the cop moms"—Jesse, it seemed, liked to brag about Mommy and Mama to her classmates—despite tomorrow being Olivia's day off and despite the three (almost four) children, two dogs, and one very grouchy pregnant lady already in attendance.

Olivia couldn't complain too much, though. Jillian was a sweet, well-mannered child, and so quiet she almost went unnoticed in the lively household. She and Jesse were an oddly matched friendship, considering Jesse's boisterous manner, high energy, and tendency to talk a blue streak; Olivia often had to remind her middle daughter not to boss around her siblings—or any other children, for that matter. A little beastie was Jesse Eileen. But, miracle of miracles, Jillian's shy, soft-spoken personality had a calming effect on the blonde beastie, who in turn patiently tried to draw out her timid friend's confidence and moxie.

The little beastie also had a giant heart to go along with that giant personality.

Even now, she was in the lead, standing directly behind Olivia and holding tight to Jillian's hand while the smaller girl lagged back near the sink, twisting her long ponytail around a spindly index finger. Though two months shy of her sixth birthday, Jesse was already taller than Jillian, who had turned six a month ago and still could have passed for a young five. A will-o'-the-wisp come to play in the beastie's woods.

"I'm gonna have to put a bell around your neck, little girl," Olivia said, cutting off the faucet and poking playfully at Jesse's tummy, until both girls giggled. Jillian stepped forward then, displaying a cute gummy grin, no front teeth to speak of. That was good; she was probably just naturally tiny, but developing healthily nevertheless. Olivia had watched for signs of malnutrition at dinner, finding none. "You scared the daylights out of Mommy."

"Me too?" Jillian asked, hopefully.

"Yep, you too." Olivia obliged with a poke at the scant little belly Jillian angled expectantly towards her, a hand on her knee. "Never been so scared in all my life."

"Did you poop your pants?" Jesse asked, a sly grin showing off the dimple that was identical to her mama's. Same cheek and everything. "Is that why you're taking a bath? 'Cause you're all poopy and stinky 'cause we scared you?"

Olivia rolled her eyes at the gales of high-pitched giggling that followed the inquiry. Sometimes raising a six-year-old was like being back in junior high. She chuckled in spite of herself, shaking her head at the little girls' antics. Now they were poking _her_ , probably in hopes of causing an actual demonstration of incontinence. "No, mouth," she said, catching their tiny hands in hers and stamping kisses to the backs. "I'm not the stinker in this room. That would be you and you. Jess and Jilly."

"My mommy calls me that, too!"

Feigning surprise at Jillian's excited declaration, Olivia dropped the girls' hands into her lap, eyes widened, hands on hips. "I never would have guessed it."

She was surprised again, this time in earnest, when Jillian reached up to pat the front of her blouse, palm resting on the swell of one breast. It might have been a fluke—kids were constantly grabbing at the strangest of places; Noah had once bitten her on the big toe while he was still crawling—or a holdover from breastfeeding. Matilda hadn't nursed since she was two months old, but at the age of three, she still found comfort in sleeping on a warm bosom (usually Olivia's), hand curled inside of the nearby shirt collar like a small, burrowing creature. Jillian was a little old to have just been weaned, but it wasn't unheard of; last year, one of Jesse's friends had "lunch with Mommy" every day.

That had raised a few eyebrows with the other moms, including Olivia, although she had never breastfed a child at all, so who was she to comment? She'd kept her opinion to herself, only to burst out laughing when Amanda said she was shocked by how advanced the kindergarten class was—they were already reading _Breakfast at Tiffany's Tits_.

Not wanting to embarrass or shame the little girl for what was most likely an innocent mistake, Olivia gathered Jillian's hand into hers again, gave it a soft pat, and placed it at the child's side. She was relieved when it remained there, loose and delicate against the pajama bottoms that were on loan from Jesse. They pooled comically around Jillian's heels and needed to be hitched up every few seconds.

"If you're not gonna take a bath, can me and Jillian?" Jesse asked. She pronounced her friend's name like an infinitely large number—a jillion dollars.

Frowning, Olivia pretended to check Jesse's brow for signs of fever. "Are you feeling all right, little love? I've never heard you request a bath before. I usually have to drag you in kicking and screaming."

Now it was Jesse's turn to roll her eyes, though Olivia hadn't been exaggerating that much. Maybe no kicking and screaming was involved, but there were definite high stakes negotiations taking place whenever the child's bath time came around. It was easier coaxing Frannie Mae's furry rump into the tub. "Jillian wants to teach me the boobies game like the lady teached her."

 _Taught_ , Olivia's brain corrected automatically, before her ears even registered the most alarming part of the sentence. After twenty-three years in SVU, she knew how to remain calm and receptive, almost passive, while speaking with children about uncomfortable—and often vile—subjects. You couldn't freak out or get angry; they needed to feel safe and free to share. All the same, Olivia's pulse quickened at what she'd heard.

It might just be another fluke. Jesse thought boobies were hilarious and brought them up at every given opportunity, no matter how inappropriate. Her most frequent topics of choice were, in no particular order: boobies, peepees (Olivia was trying to make the transition to anatomically correct language, but Amanda claimed that hearing a five- and three-year-old saying the words _penis_ and _vagina_ made her teeth hurt), poop, boogers, and farts. She had probably just misquoted Jillian. Olivia hoped.

"The boobies game? What's that?" She widened her eyes a little at the girls, her tone inquisitive but not overly upbeat. Kids picked up on that phony stuff a lot quicker than most people thought. Especially the precocious ones, like Jesse.

"I dunno." Jesse shrugged her shoulders and glanced to Jillian for her input, without waiting for it to be given. "She just said the lady teached it to her. But I said we have to ask my mommy 'cause it's a no clothes game. She wants you to play too, Mommy. Grownups play it with little kids. So, can we?"

Olivia's heart sank the longer she listened to her daughter's explanation. Another thing about working SVU for so many years—not to mention all the years spent with her mother—she picked up on abuse as if she had a sixth sense for it. She'd been studying Jillian's behavior since arriving home from work and meeting the child. Now she knew why.

But she still needed to hear it from Jillian herself. The little girl was chewing on the overlong cuff of her borrowed pajama top, watching Olivia intently with big hazel eyes trimmed in fairytale princess lashes. A canopy of light brown bangs fell in a perfectly even line across her forehead. She was a good girl who held still for haircuts and didn't experiment with scissors herself. Probably obedient when given instructions by an adult.

"You know what, Jess?" Olivia leaned forward and nudged her daughter's forehead with her own. She would have to give the girl a refresher course in body safety when Jillian went home tomorrow, but it was a good sign that Jesse had asked permission before agreeing to "the game." Her wild child was listening. "Mommy wants to have a talk with Jillian about something very important. Can you be a big girl for me and play the iPad in your room for a little bit? On quiet, so you don't wake Tilly."

The iPad was usually off limits and therefore an enticing offer that the kids could seldom resist when Olivia or Amanda dangled it in front of them. But Jesse wasn't born yesterday—she had five years and nine whole months of life experience to go on. "Is Jillian in trouble?" she asked, regarding her friend and Olivia with suspicion. She even narrowed her eyes slightly, a newly acquired habit that Amanda swore the child had picked up from Mommy.

"No, no," Olivia said hurriedly, trying to reassure Jillian, who looked to be in mortal terror at the prospect of getting scolded. The smaller girl edged towards Jesse, hugging her friend's skinny arm to her own skinny chest.

Fear of punishment. Not good. Predators singled out those traits, like lions stalking the weaker members of a herd, and pounced on them, devouring. Easy pickings, the small and timid girls who wanted desperately to please.

"Jillian didn't do anything wrong. She's the best little guest we've had in a long time. She doesn't try to drink from the dog bowls like that silly boy Noah invited over, does she?"

The girls laughed at that, Jillian joining in once Jesse made a dramatic show of disgust and cried, "Ew, no! That boy was weird."

"I only drink from cups," Jillian agreed with absolute sincerity, though it was hard not to smile at the lisping pronunciation _cupths_. "And sometimes juice boxes."

"We don't have those. Just Kool-Aid." Jesse wriggled loose from Jillian's grasp then, trudging for the hallway. "I'm gonna go play iPad. Come get me when y'all are done, okay?"

And with that announcement, Jesse was gone, leaving her mother and best friend to their very important talk. Jillian gazed after the younger girl the way Frannie watched her masters through the Petco viewing window on grooming day. When she turned back, as tiny and fragile as a baby bird fallen from the nest, Olivia was glad to be seated, rather than looming over the little girl in the big empty bathroom. Bathrooms were scary places when you'd been assaulted in one.

"Should I shut the door?" Jillian asked, as if she were requesting nothing more unusual than a second helping at the dinner table. "Rachel says we're s'posed to play with the door shut. It's funner that way."

"No, honey. Let's leave the door open. Actually . . . " Olivia stood slowly and moved away from the tub, extending a hand to Jillian. She felt a deep pang of sadness when the little girl easily accepted, without any explanation of where they were going, or why. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Chaucer had said. The perfect simile for an overly trusting child. "Let's go on out to the living room and sit, okay? Is that all right with you?"

"Uh-huh."

When they were seated on the couch, Gigi wedged between them, providing a friendly distance and the comfort of a warm, furry protector to pet and snuggle, Olivia took a moment to breathe. It never got any easier listening to victims disclose, especially the children. Since those two pink lines first appeared on Amanda's at-home test stick, Olivia had found herself overwhelmed by emotion, almost as if she were the one experiencing the surge of hormones that accompanied pregnancy. She'd even pawned off a few of the grimmer abuse cases on Fin and Kat recently, not trusting her tears—or her anger—to remain in check, and not wanting her wife and unborn child anywhere near such atrocities.

But this one had walked right through her front door, holding her oldest daughter's hand and grinning a toothless grin. Olivia couldn't (and wouldn't) leave it up to anyone else to intervene.

"So, Jillian," she began, smoothing Gigi's silky ear against one palm with the flat of the other. The golden retriever was used to frequent stroking and random displays of affection; she might be Olivia's service dog, but she had also become a family counselor, of sorts, always willing to lend an ear—for scratching or listening—and never making light of even the smallest troubles. "Can you tell me about Rachel? Is that who taught you the game Jesse asked to play?"

"Uh-huh. She babysitted me and we played. She said we can again next time, and she'll teach me more big girl games." On the opposite side, Jillian lifted Gigi's ear and imitated the same repetitive strokes administered by Olivia.

Upon her arrival at the apartment, the child had been intimidated by Frannie and Gigi's size, not to mention Frannie's exuberance, but now she was an old hand at doggie cuddles. And Gigi had a new little charge to adore and watch over.

"Ah. So, Rachel is your babysitter?" Olivia asked, ignoring the hard little knot in the pit of her stomach. She had been so selective and thorough when she hired Lucy as a nanny, she'd scared almost every other applicant away. It was a simple stroke of luck that she found the perfect girl at the perfect time—and still managed to keep her on, seven years and counting. Few families were that fortunate.

"No, she's my daddy's sister. She lived in Flor— Flordira, but now she lives with my grandma and grandpa." Jillian brightened, flapping Gigi's ear lightly by the tip like a traveler waving bon voyage with a handkerchief. "Flordira's where Disney World is. Rachel says she knows Elsa and if I'm good and play the games, she'll take me to see her and Anna and Olaf!"

 _I just bet she will_ , Olivia thought, grimly. And, in a distant corner of her mind: _Bitch_.

A relative, then. Somehow that made it all the worse. When it happened outside of the family, at least you could sever ties with the abuser, make a swift, clean cut. When the same blood as a predator's ran through your veins, you spent the rest of your life fearing you might turn out just like him. Or her.

Was that the life that awaited this innocent little girl, decided for her before her permanent teeth had even grown in, while she still believed in giant, talking snowmen and happy endings?

Not if Olivia could help it.

"Wow. What about your mommy? Does she get to go along, too?"

"No, she can't come. She doesn't know the game, and Rachel says she probably has to work." Jillian frowned and released Gigi's ear, her hand resting atop the dog's head. Her tiny fingernails were no bigger than the pearl pendant on Olivia's feather necklace, each one dotted with Crayola-pink polish just beginning to chip into geometric shapes. "She works a lot."

That one hurt. Olivia's own children often voiced the same complaint, in the same melancholy tone. Amanda's sick leave after the shooting last year and her lighter workload in recent weeks had gotten the children used to having a parent at home, and they asked with increasing frequency why Olivia couldn't spend as much time with them as Mama did. Even her little lark Matilda had begun to cry whenever Mommy clipped on her badge and her "bang bang" (the child's term for _gun_ ). "No, Mommy, no work. Please."

Olivia had never wanted her children to know what a meaningless, ineffectual word that was—please. And now she wondered what other awful truths they might learn in her absence. The same ones she had learned when her mother was working or drunk (usually the latter), leaving her alone with strange men? The same ones Jillian had learned from Auntie Rachel?

"That must make you sad," Olivia said, instinctively reaching out to stroke the little girl's hair. She thought better of it at the last minute, and pressed the back of Jillian's hand once, briefly, instead. "How does your aunt's game make you feel?"

After a thoughtful silence—much too pensive for a six-year-old, in Olivia's opinion—Jillian gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "It's funny, I guess. Aunt Rachel says it feels good, but it makes me . . . it makes me— Olivia, my tummy hurts."

"I know, sweetheart," Olivia said sympathetically, patting the child's hand again, urging it to resume a soothing rhythm through Gigi's dense, white-blonde fur. Sometimes that was the only way Olivia could calm herself in the wake of a night terror or flashback. Most days she was fine, which made it twice as bad on the days she wasn't. "I know it's really hard to talk about, but you're so brave. Can I ask you just a few more questions?"

"Okay." Jillian gazed up warily, resembling Frannie when she got wound up and accidentally piddled on the carpet.

Offering a light, appreciative smile, Olivia proceeded with care, her voice pitched the same as when she read the kids one of their more bittersweet bedtime tales, like _Love You Forever_ or _The Velveteen Rabbit_. "Does it hurt you other places when Rachel plays the game?"

Lifting the hand she wasn't petting Gigi with, Jillian gnawed at her cuff again, back teeth desperately chewing. Poor kid would probably have to sleep with a night guard when she got older, if she didn't already. "Hm-mm. I got scared because Rachel was . . . " Here, the girl cast an anxious look towards the hallway and whispered the conclusion. "—nakey. But it's okay since we're girls. And I didn't have to be nakey. It was just a bath for big girls with boobies. Mine don't tickle yet, so we tickled hers."

Now Olivia had a stomach ache. She'd known where this was going from the start, but she always held out hope that she would be wrong, eternal optimist that she was. "Can you show me how with this?" she asked, scooping up one of Matilda's generic baby dolls from a pile beside the couch. She intentionally skipped over the Elsa plushie that was within closer reach.

Jillian accepted the doll eagerly, smiling at its winking eyelids and the plastic curl in the middle of its bulbous forehead. She switched the doll back and forth a few times like the pendulum on a metronome, watching its eyes blink, then lifted its frilly pink dress and caressed the formless chest underneath. "Hers are like mine, though. Rachel's are like yours. We bounced 'em, and it was _so_ funny! They're like Jell-O, and there's a— a thing, I forget what it's called. I touched them, and they got big. They feel like my pencil erasers at school. Do your boobies do that?"

Gently overlooking the question, Olivia pointed back to the doll. "Did you or Rachel touch each other anywhere else? Can you show me?"

Head tilted at a shy angle, Jillian regarded the plastic baby as if she might clam up again. She poked idly at the dolls rounded lips with both thumbs before moving gradually lower and peeling down its lacey pink panties. "Here," she said, tapping a finger to the sexless hump between the doll's legs.

Innocuous as a chin or a kneecap, that smooth curve, but for Olivia, it brought to mind the medical exam results she heard on a regular basis: torn hymen, injuries of the posterior fourchette, genital warts, labial adhesions. _I bet yours is real pretty_. _Better than red velvet_.

( _"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit._

 _"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."_ )

"I don't like that part of the game, though," Jillian said, quietly.

"Why not, honey?"

"It's scratchy like my daddy's beard. I told Aunt Rachel I don't want to do that anymore, but she said I have to. It's how you win the game." With a weary sigh, Jillian righted the doll's underwear and cradled it as though it were a real infant. A Real infant. "I'm not scratchy down there. Aunt Rachel wants it to be my turn next, but I . . . oh. Uh-oh."

All at once, Jillian looked up with a distraught expression, hazel eyes brimming in tears and her bottom lip quivering as if she'd caught a chill.

"What is it, honey, what's wrong?" Olivia asked, alarmed by the sudden change.

"I forgot I'm not s'posed to talk about the game. I can't go see Elsa and Anna if I talk about it. You won't tell my aunt will you? Please don't tell her, I wanna go to Flordira and ride the teacups." The child's last bit of resolve crumbled at the prospect of being cast out from Alice's mad tea party, and she wept as openly as the heroine of that tale crying the sea of tears that carried her into Wonderland. "Please don't tell, 'Livia."

"Shh, shh. I won't tell your aunt, sweetheart." This time Olivia stroked the little girl's lopsided ponytail as she huddled forward and sobbed into Gigi's fur. It was all Olivia could do not to gather the child into a soothing embrace and rock her, the way she would have with her own children. But this was not one of her daughters—no matter how strong the pull—and physically comforting a sexually abused child in private was just asking for trouble. She settled for gentle pats on the back and more murmured assurances that she wouldn't tell (not Auntie Rachel, at least).

When the tears subsided, an occasional sniffle or juddering breath all that remained, Olivia daubed at Jillian's damp cheeks with a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetie," she said, swiping under Jillian's button nose with exaggerated care. "None of what your aunt did is your fault, you remember that no matter what happens, okay? And you're such a big brave girl for telling me about it. You remember that, too."

"I am?" Jillian looked down wonderingly at her hands, as if they had just been endowed with some strange new power—superhuman strength or airbending, perhaps. "Brave like Merida?"

"Yep, just like Merida." Olivia nodded resolutely and booped the tip of Jillian's nose with the pad of her index finger. Wish granted. "They'll probably call you Princess Jillian of DunBroch now," she added, making the little girl giggle with her hammy rendition of a Scottish accent. It always got a good laugh out of Amanda and the kids whenever she dusted it off after their latest viewing of _Brave_ , a favorite of Jesse's (and Matilda's, although Merida's springy ginger curls—so like her own—were the main draw).

"Don't ever let them put you undercover as a Scotswoman, darlin'," was Amanda's usual snickering response. She always pulled a face like someone had scraped their fingernails across a chalkboard. "You'd get made the second you opened your mouth."

To which Olivia would reply, in an even thicker brogue and, later, when they were alone, with a hand on the bum in question, "Ah, yer bum's oot the windae, lassie."

"Can Jesse and me watch _Brave_?" Jillian asked, already showing a bit more assertiveness to go with her new title. She'd been too tentative to request milk with dinner, instead conveying the message through Jesse, who was more than happy to be her mouthpiece. (Jesse Eileen was more than happy to be most people's mouthpiece.) "I want to see how Merida is, so I can be like her. Please, please, please."

Well, Olivia had stuck her foot in that one. She glanced at her watch and was about to suggest something shorter—a bedtime story that she could skim over once the girls were dozing, a nifty little trick she'd picked up from her wife—when Jesse charged into the living room, cast the iPad aside on the armchair, and joined Jillian in her supplication. Both girls stood in front of Olivia, bouncing up and down like a couple of jumping beans, hands clasped under their chins as they begged "please, please, please."

"Jesse, you don't even know what you're asking for," she said, trying not to laugh at her daughter's instant enthusiasm, and failing miserably, as she waved the girls off.

"I don't care." Jesse continued leaping, long blonde hair flouncing around her shoulders and spilling into her eyes. She swiped it away with mild annoyance—her teacher had politely suggested barrettes to hold back the child's hair and eliminate distraction, at which Olivia and Amanda had laughed the entire drive home from the parent-teacher conference (Jesse? Barrettes? Preposterous!)—only to bounce it loose again. "I want it. Please, Mommy. Pretty please, with whipped cream and a cherry on top?"

"And hot fudge and sprinkles," Jillian added, sounding as if she were riding a pogo stick. Her ponytail swished behind her, not quite as wildly as Jesse's carefree locks, especially with those impossibly even bangs, but the light brown ringlet at the end had almost as much spring as Tigger's tail itself.

How could Olivia possibly say no to that? It was actually better this way. Everyone else was asleep—Amanda had barfed herself into exhaustion, poor thing; Matilda had conked out at seven-thirty on the nose, just like every other night; and Noah wanted to be well-rested for tomorrow's dance class, thus tucking himself in at eight o'clock (the boy was more health conscious than both of his mothers combined). That just left Olivia and the two little munchkins bobbing up and down in front of her, wearing themselves out by the minute.

She wasn't too concerned about the girls sleeping together in Jesse and Matilda's bedroom, but she would rest easier if they camped out in the living room, where she could keep an eye on them. Until she had a talk with Jillian's mother and knew the little girl was getting the help she would undoubtedly need, it was best to exercise caution. The girl's aunt had taken a child's natural, harmless curiosity and twisted it into something profane and stigmatizing. Olivia hated that she was playing into it by not trusting Jillian, but she had to protect her children, too.

"All right, all right." Finally, she managed to quiet both girls, only for them to run off squealing when she instructed Jesse: "Go get the sleeping bags from your—"

"Good Lord," she sighed, watching after them with bemusement. And soon there would be the pitter-patter of two more tiny feet joining in with all the rest. Oh, Captain Benson, have you got your work cut out for you.

She couldn't wait, to be honest. And half an hour later, when Jesse and Jillian were sound asleep on the floor, cocooned in Bart Simpson ("Don't have a cow, man," Amanda had replied scratchily, hugging her childhood keepsake while Olivia expressed disapproval of the smart-aleck cartoon character on its nylon shell) and Moana bedrolls respectively, Olivia dozed on the couch, a faint smile on her lips and three bear cubs tumbling across the television screen.

**. . .**


	2. Part 2

**. . .**

She awoke to find one bear sitting on top of her head, three more lined up beside the couch, tittering. "You sound like Mor'du when you sleep, Mommy," said the Jesse-shaped bear, leaning in to inspect Olivia's face—presumably for whiskers and grizzly fangs. "Did you eat one of the witch's tarts for breakfast?"

That sent the Jillian and Matilda cubs into a fit of giggles, drawing Amanda in from the kitchen to shush them. A bowl of pancake mix tucked at her side, she churned a wooden spoon through the sallow batter and gave Olivia an apologetic smile. "Mornin', beautiful. Sorry, I told these little stinkers not to bother you. Y'all go play and let Mommy rest. She had a rough night."

The last part was directed at Olivia, a wry smile on Amanda's lips as she cranked the batter, ignoring Frannie's hopeful prancing underfoot (the pittie loved pancake Saturdays), and watched her wife extracting herself from the couch like she'd been Velcroed to the cushions. The "bear" sitting on Olivia's head turned out to be Gigi, who had wedged in between the arm of the couch and her sleeping master. She smiled her big golden smile and greeted Olivia with a lick directly to the lips.

"Oh my God," Olivia groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and sitting up in a daze. She hadn't woken up on the couch after a full night's sleep in quite awhile, and the change in location—and wiggle room—was jarring. Not to mention the doggie French kisses. "Thanks, Geeg."

"Back off my woman, you blonde hussy," Amanda said affectionately, shooing the golden retriever off the couch and taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Olivia, their legs interlocked at the knee. She chuckled at the confounded look and squinty eyes across from her, and nudged lightly at Olivia's thigh with one of her own. "Missed you last night. What happened, the girls wear you out?"

Olivia scrubbed a hand over her face and stretched as widely as her stiff limbs would allow. Her left shoulder practically squeaked like a rusty hinge, and she cut short the bold gesture, tucking her arm in quickly and stifling a massive yawn. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry, love. I was going to shut the movie off and come to bed as soon as they were out, but I must not have— oh, crap!"

Snatching back the arm she was tentatively flexing and rotating, trying to loosen her tight, unhappy muscles, she checked her watch and sat forward, about to start up from the couch. "I forgot Noah's dance class, he's going to be so upset with me. Why didn't anyone wake me up?"

"Because Lucy already stopped by on her way there," Amanda said, placing a calming hand on Olivia's shoulder and urging her to sit back down. "Remember, she walks that little girl in from a few blocks over? Noah really wanted to go with them, and I didn't think you'd mind . . . "

"Oh." Olivia settled onto the couch cushion, deflating a little. She didn't mind—it was good that Amanda felt comfortable parenting all the kids now, not just Jesse—but she was still disappointed to miss out on the bonding time with her son. He didn't like her to hang out in the back of the studio anymore, smiling and offering silent encouragement, eyes alight with pride ("It's weird, Mom. None of the other moms watch us practice"). Their walks to and from were special, though; the conversation was funny and insightful, his observations by turn surprising and delighting her, and sometimes he still let her hold his hand. Her bright, sensitive, artistic boy.

"Sorry, darlin'. I'll run it by you next time." Amanda reached over and combed her fingers through Olivia's hair, which was no doubt in shambles after last night's impromptu campout. Her features softened into a faint, wistful smile, a hint of sadness at the edges. She often looked like that when she touched Olivia's hair these days. "I think he has a crush on Stella, to be honest. Turned red as one of Grandmama's garden tomatoes when he saw her at the door."

"It's okay." Olivia squeezed Amanda's wrist lightly, brought it to her lips and pecked the inside. "Who's Stella?"

"The little girl Lucy walks to class . . . " Eyebrow hiked up beneath her flaxen bangs, Amanda studied Olivia closely and when her wrist was free, pressed it to Olivia's forehead. "You feeling okay? You seem kinda scattered. Hope you're not coming down with something."

Ashamed of being fussed over by her pregnant wife, no matter how good it felt, Olivia caught at Amanda's wrist again and lowered it into her lap, cupping the hand it belonged to in hers. "I'm fine. I just . . . had a lot on my mind last night. Are you feeling better? I haven't seen projectile vomiting like that since the 1970s."

" _The Exorcist_ ," she clarified quickly, noting the crestfallen look on her wife's face. Amanda probably thought she was referring to her mother or her own frequent stomach aches and anxiety-related digestive issues from childhood. Years ago, during a dental checkup, the hygienist came right out and asked if Olivia had suffered from bulimia as a teenager. But no, just a bad case of Serena Benson.

 _You might consider investing in a night guard to counteract that bruxism too_ , the dour little woman had suggested. _You're going to grind these back teeth down to the nub, you keep it up_.

Until that moment, Olivia hadn't even realized she was a tooth-grinder. She'd curbed the habit—for the most part—in her early thirties, and never looked back. It had always been fairly easy for her to break habits and nervous tics once she noticed them. She was good at denying herself.

Amanda gave a small snort of laughter at the movie reference, shaking her fair head in amusement. "I think I got all the demons out. Might need some laying on of hands later tonight, though." She winked at Olivia before turning serious, brow furrowed and a palm on her minuscule belly, as if capricious Avi had started acting up again. "What's on your mind, darlin'? Feel like talking about it?"

After a brief glance to the hallway, where their daughters' and Jillian's joyful chatter filtered from an open bedroom door, Olivia responded in a hushed, somber tone. "Jillian disclosed to me last night," she said, and sighed heavily, though the weight the words carried hadn't lifted. She'd gone to sleep thinking about it and woke with the little girl's plaintive voice echoing in her ears: _I'm not scratchy down there_.

 _Please don't tell, 'Livia_.

( _I bet yours is real pretty_.)

( _Better than red velvet_.)

"Shit," Amanda muttered, and now she did look a bit ill, the color draining from her already pale cheeks. She splayed her hand protectively against her stomach. "That sweet little thing? She's just a baby. She's Jesse's age, Liv. Please don't tell me she was raped, 'cause I will kill—"

"Whoa, hey." Olivia rested a hand on either of Amanda's knees, chafing them lightly through the silky pajama bottoms the detective had recently filched from Olivia's sleepwear drawer. A simple wardrobe mix-up, Amanda claimed, but Olivia had spotted several items missing from her side of the closet mysteriously popping up on her wife's side. She had married the world's most adorable clothing bandit. "Let's calm down and breathe. I'd rather not visit my wife and baby in lockup."

"Sorry. Hormones." Amanda inhaled deeply, held it for a few counts, then exhaled and nodded for Olivia to continue. She was getting good at the mindful breathing exercises. Courtesy of Loganville High track and Lamaze practice, she claimed. Olivia thought it might be related to the therapy sessions with Dr. Hanover as well, but she didn't ask.

"I see that," Olivia said gently, patting the blonde's knees again. "And no, I don't think it's escalated to rape yet, thank God. But she is being sexually abused by a family member. Sounds like the mother has no idea, so guess who gets to break her heart when she picks up her baby girl today?"

"Shit," Amanda repeated. She frowned down at the bowl of batter beside her hip and plucked a blueberry from the mixture, absently offering it to Frannie. The pit bull scarfed up the small treat without pausing to identify it, and sat wagging her tail and panting for more. "You want me to do it? I've met her and talked to her a few times. Might be easier to hear coming from me."

That might very well be true, but there was no way Olivia would saddle her pregnant wife with such an unpleasant task. She didn't even like that Amanda insisted on performing all her regular duties at work, at least until the doctor or the baby weight slowed her down. If the detective ever discovered how many calls Olivia had rerouted to Fin or Kat during the frequent bathroom breaks she required with each passing month, she would have more than just a cow, man. There would be an entire herd of furious barnyard animals in Olivia's squad room.

"No, sweetheart. I appreciate the offer, but it should be me. I'm the outcry witness." Olivia tilted her head for a reassuring smile. She folded her lips together, declining the blueberry Amanda extended with the same fingers Frannie had just licked clean. "If you could keep the kids busy while I talk to mom, that would be a big help."

"Yep, I can do that. I was thinking 'bout taking them to the park after pancakes, anyway." Amanda popped the blueberry into her mouth—their little avocado had yet to revolt against fresh fruit, knock wood—and leaned in for a sweet-lipped kiss that made Olivia suddenly crave breakfast voraciously.

The blonde probably hadn't had any such intentions about the park, but Olivia would let that one slide, so to speak. It was only a couple blocks away, and having a serious conversation with Jillian's mother would require privacy, much easier to come by with the kids out of the apartment. "The mom's young," Amanda added, lightly. She toyed with a tress of Olivia's hair, gliding it over her palm, between her fingers. The miller's daughter, spinning straw into gold. "Early thirties, maybe. Kinda fragile. She probably doesn't even know what to watch for. Who'd you say the abuser was, again?"

 _Nice try_ , Olivia thought, a faint smirk on her lips. No way was she falling for that one a second time. During a late night gut-spilling session months ago, almost certainly inspired by the return to weekly G.A. meetings, the detective had confessed to using what little information she knew about Olivia's first, ill-advised fiancé (Daniel Mc—, a senior at Hudson U in 1984) to hunt the man down and, in Amanda's words, put the fear of God into him for raping Olivia at age sixteen. _Barely_ sixteen, Amanda always stressed.

Olivia still couldn't bring herself to call it rape, statutory or otherwise, when she had been a willing participant (after the first failed attempt, at least). But she'd been unable to produce a decent rebuttal when her wife pointed out that, if the same thing happened to Jesse or Matilda—or even Noah—at sixteen, Olivia would undoubtedly consider it rape. The mere thought of her sweet little girls, or her beautiful boy, being used and discarded like that had made her blood run cold, her stomach jump into knots. She couldn't chastise Amanda for something she might have done herself, if their roles were reversed. But she wouldn't stoke the flames, either.

"I didn't."

"You think I'm going to go after him?" Amanda blew a scoffing sound from between her lips. "Look at me, I'm as big as a barn. What am I gonna do, waddle up to him and barf on his shoes? Punch him with my giant tits? Threaten him with my dilated cervix?"

After each scenario, Olivia received a playful poke to the ribs, until she squirmed away with a little shriek of laughter that brought Gigi to the rescue—if being licked from top to bottom could be called a rescue. "As much as I'd like to see all of those things happen," Olivia said, gasping for breath and flinching back from every fake-out grab Amanda teased her with, "I think you'd better stick to making pancakes. And maybe a cup of coffee for your adoring wife. How 'bout it, Waddles?"

"Waddles?" Amanda snorted at that, then despite her so-called barn status, lunged forward and spent the next few minutes tickling Olivia and threatening her with the new nickname Puddles.

By the time Jillian's mother arrived, accepting an invitation to chat over a cup of tea while they waited for the children to return from the park, Olivia really was close to bursting. She regretted her two-coffee breakfast more than ever as she poured the steaming liquid from the teapot into the delicate cups side by side in their pretty saucers.

"I hope you don't mind peach flavored," she called from the kitchen, selecting a pair of tea bags from a small tin whose label read "Peach Passion." She was the only tea drinker in the apartment—and she usually reserved the mild brew for stressful days when she needed to unwind with something tamer than merlot—so she hadn't stocked up since purchasing the tin at the Loganville fair last June. _I am rather passionate about my peaches_ , she had murmured in Amanda's ear as the vendor (an elderly woman Amanda had known since preschool) rang up her total. _One in particular_.

Amanda was barely six weeks along at that time, and the sex had been phenomenal. Still was, when the detective felt up to it. There was nothing quite like worshiping the burgeoning, life-giving body of your pregnant wife, practically feeling the growth beneath your hands, your own heart swelling with love to match it. Olivia couldn't get enough, her enthusiasm for pleasuring Amanda inspiring the blonde to inquire wryly, breathlessly, _You tryin' to turn me into a pillow princess up here, Cap'n?_

Affirmative, Detective.

"Peach is perfect," said Jillian's mother, and laughed lightly at the alliteration. She seemed to have a penchant for those. Her name was Julianne, a similarity to her daughter's name for which she apologized and told Olivia to call her "Jules," in order to avoid confusion.

She was as wispy and timid as her little girl, with a frame so frail, Olivia felt the urge to offer her a plate of shortbread cookies—the entire thing—to go with the tea. And she was indeed young; Amanda had guessed her early thirties, but Olivia wouldn't put her a day over twenty-eight.

The age could be a good thing or a bad thing in this situation. Younger women often looked to Olivia as a maternal figure, wanting support and guidance, and that generally worked in her favor when she had to deliver upsetting news. But then there were the women who saw her as Mother, as Authority, and resented her for it. Luckily, Julianne didn't strike Olivia as the resentful type. She doubted the shy young woman had ever raised her voice to anyone in her life.

"There you go." Olivia settled into the dining room chair opposite her guest and carefully handed over one of the brimming teacups from the neatly arranged tray that accompanied her. "Sugar?"

"Yes, please." Julianne accepted the ceramic sugar bowl— _Sugar_ , it conveniently read across its little potbelly—and scooped out no more than a teaspoon with the tablespoon that slanted from the granules like a shovel in the sand. She tipped the sweetener into her cup, and though it was difficult to tell, it looked as if her hand trembled.

"Did Jillian misbehave?" she asked suddenly, the spoon posed comically beside her, erect as an exclamation point. With her delicate bone structure and wide brown eyes, she resembled a woman in a vintage magazine ad, stunned by whichever ingenious household product she'd just discovered—a toaster oven! Scrubbing bubbles! "That's not like her, but if she did, I can have a talk with her."

Olivia paused in the middle of dunking one of the tea bags into her flowered cup. "Oh, no. Nothing like that," she said hurriedly, to assuage the young woman's concern, misplaced as it was. "Jillian is an absolute sweetheart. Very well-behaved. My youngest adores her. Jillian let her play Barbies, and Matilda was in Heaven."

The Barbie dolls that had been stowed away in Jillian's backpack were somewhat of a novelty in the Rollins-Benson home. Olivia had never owned any, her mother insisting they were just another way for society to brainwash girls into domestic goddesses, waiting on their husbands hand and foot, all while perfectly coiffed and dressed to the nines. Not to mention the unrealistic physical proportions.

Amanda claimed to have melted down all of her secondhand Barbies into a giant fleshpuddle ("The orgy from Hell," she called it) of disembodied limbs and charred plastic with her daddy's Zippo—a story she hadn't told in front of Jesse, thank God. The first-grader's interest in dolls was already waning, a coup for her little sister, who inherited all the orphaned babies and mothered them as if they were as real as the one growing in Mama's tummy. No Barbies, though. Neither Olivia or Amanda had outgrown their distaste for them, and encouraged the girls to play with more lifelike, body positive characters.

But Olivia hadn't objected to the buxom blonde toys when Jillian presented them. It was the least she could do, after pitching the pink-cupcake baby which Jillian had depicted her abuse upon. It was an off-brand, functionless doll that wouldn't be missed among the twenty or so others who called Matilda "Mommy," and who performed an assortment of delightful tasks, such as dispensing water in their diapers when bottle-fed or squalling to be held; nevertheless, Olivia felt guilty about sneaking it to the trash chute. She just couldn't look at it anymore.

"Speaking of behavior, though . . . " Olivia resumed yo-yoing the tea bag up and down slowly in her hot water. It felt a bit like dipping one's toes into a tub of water that hot, trying to proceed with conversations as difficult as these. Both required a great deal of care. "May I ask if you've noticed any behavioral changes in Jillian recently?"

Julianne glanced over the brim of her teacup, sipping cautiously. She touched her lips with long, graceful fingers as she swallowed the dainty mouthful she'd been caught imbibing. "Changes? I don't think so. What sort of changes do you mean?"

 _And here we go_ , Olivia thought, scalding her own tongue with the Peach Passion. She settled for cupping the tea in both hands, preferring its soothing warmth in her palms anyway. "Things like nightmares, bed-wetting, mood swings, loss of appetite . . . "

During each example, Julianne shook her long, pretty brown hair, which was as straight up and down as the rest of her, a puzzled look on her narrow face. "No," she said, the word drifting off rather than coming to a full, decisive stop.

"Fear of certain people or places, depression, age-inappropriate sexual knowledge or language—"

"What? She's six," said Julianne, aghast. "I haven't even talked to her about that yet." She leaned forward and whispered the word _that_ , as if it were the F-word. As if it were S-E-X. "Six-year-olds don't talk about sex. Or get depressed."

"Some do. Especially if they're being sexually abused." Olivia studied Julianne closely, praying she wouldn't find any guilt or malice behind the big doe eyes. You would be surprised—and sickened—by how often the mother was aware of the abuse, or worse, was herself the perpetrator. Thankfully, Olivia saw neither of those things hiding in the woman's troubled expression. Julianne really had no idea what her child was going through.

For one fleeting moment, Olivia felt anger rather than sympathy. Her own mother, despite all the lessons on female independence and body safety that she'd drilled into Olivia (back then, they weren't even calling it Good Touch, Bad Touch yet, and no one—not even the so-called experts—knew what the hell to watch for), had been painfully aloof on the subject of child predators. Hopefully not purposely aloof, as Olivia sometimes feared. The incidents from her childhood had gone undetected by her mother, that's why Serena hadn't stopped them. Maybe if Olivia had spoken up, told Serena what the men she brought home were really interested in, maybe that would have been enough . . .

In any case, Julianne was not Serena Benson, and little Jilly was not little Livvy. The young woman hadn't invited the predator into her home—or her bed—and she certainly hadn't offered her daughter up like bait.

"What are you saying?" Julianne asked in a tremulous voice, the teacup tipping dangerously from the finger she crooked around the gilded handle. "Someone's . . . someone's doing things to my little girl? My Jilly?"

The empathy Olivia had been unable to tap into a moment ago let loose in a rush, and she had to swallow several times before she could speak around the lump in her throat. "I believe so, yes. Jillian said some things to me last night, and when I asked her about them, she disclosed the abuse."

"What things? What did she say?" Julianne noticed the tea dribbling onto the tablecloth and quickly set the cup in its saucer, sloshing more liquid over the brim. "Oh my God, I'm sorry," she gasped, and clapped both hands to her mouth. "Oh, God. Was it her father? Did he—"

"No, no. It's fine." Unfurling one of the cloth napkins on the tray, Olivia rounded the table and blotted at the moisture seeping into the linen. She truly didn't mind about the spill; half of the table dressings she owned bore similar stains, thanks to a certain six-year-old towheaded beastie. (A certain forty-one-year-old towheaded beastie had dirtied her fair share as well.) "I don't believe her father was involved at all, or even  
aware . . . "

Interesting that he was the first person Julianne suspected, though. Wives, even the former ones, usually weren't eager to implicate the father for molesting the child. It was just too incomprehensible for most of them. No woman wanted to accept that she had shared a bed with a man who preferred children. Maybe that was why Serena had been so blind to it.

Making note of the incongruity, Olivia placed the damp napkin aside and pulled up the empty chair from the end of the table, taking a seat next to the younger woman. "Jillian told me about a woman named Rachel. Her father's sister?"

Julianne nodded, obviously not cottoning on to the woman's role in the narrative. "Yes, his older sister. She just moved back to the city from—"

 _Flordira_. Home of Elsa, the isolated ice queen, and her flibbertigibbet little sister, Anna. The land of talking snowmen, mad tea parties, and at least one pedophile auntie. "Florida, yes, Jillian mentioned that when she detailed the abuse," Olivia said meaningfully, and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, an apologetic look on her face. She gave Julianne a moment to absorb what she was hearing.

"Wait, are you saying . . . " Julianne gestured vaguely, as if she were trying to piece together a puzzle in midair. Suddenly she recoiled and gaped like Olivia had lost her mind. "But . . . she's Jillian's aunt. And she's a woman. Women don't do those things to little girls."

And then, with far less certainty and a quiver of the lip that perfectly matched her daughter's: "Do they?"

Olivia stifled a small, weary sigh. Sometimes, just for a split-second, she really hated her job. Especially when she had to destroy someone's sense of safety and surety of how the world worked—first graders were innocent and had no knowledge of sex, family members were always to be trusted, and women would never dream of abusing a child. None of that was true, and Olivia had known it for as long as she could remember, but it still hurt to take it away from someone else. Someone whose reality it might have been, if only for a little while.

"It happens. I've seen it a lot over the years, unfortunately. It's not as common as men who abuse children, but we think at least some of that is due to underreporting. Sexual abuse by women is often disguised as normal caregiving, and can be much harder to prove. Children are especially reluctant to come forward, for fear they won't be believed. And because the abuser is typically someone they love, who they believe loves them." Olivia caught herself talking with her hands, using them to impress each point, specifically the last one. She folded them tightly against her knees.

"It seems Rachel promised your daughter a trip to Disney World if she kept their secret. That's a technique we call grooming. Predators earn the child's trust, pay special attention to them, buy them gifts—all as a means of continuing the abuse." Some of them even propose, Olivia thought. They tell you they love you, they say you're beautiful and they just have to have you, then they run away and leave you to pick up the pieces. Or the broken vodka bottle, as it were.

"What did that woman do to my daughter?" Julianne asked, a harsh quality in her voice that was surprising from someone so tender. She couldn't sustain the anger, though. As quickly as it flashed in her large, luminous eyes, it faded to profound sadness. "Did she— did she—"

Gently, Olivia reached over and caught the hand that gestured helplessly at unseen, unspeakable words, bundling it up in both of hers. Her own words she applied in a low, measured cadence, a tone Rafael Barba once lovingly deemed her "angel of mercy" voice. Funny, it never felt that way—merciful. "She exposed herself to Jillian in the bathtub. Encouraged Jillian to fondle her breasts and pubic area. Your daughter was very . . . descriptive about what she saw and touched. And the reactions it elicited from her aunt."

"Oh, God." Julianne looked like she was going to vomit. It would not be the first time a mother had reacted that way to bad news from Olivia.

"From what I gathered, Jillian was allowed to keep her clothes on the whole time. Rachel may not have reciprocated the touching at all, but she did tell Jillian there were other 'games' they could play in the future, and I believe those would be used to escalate the abuse."

Of course they would. Jillian wasn't scratchy down there just yet.

"Oh, God," Julianne moaned again, pressing the back of her free hand to her mouth. "Oh, God."

"Juli— Jules, it's okay. Shh. It's okay."

"No, it's not. She tried to tell me." Right then, the young woman looked more forlorn than a lost lamb in search of its mother. She cast a glance around the room: at the forgotten tea, the brown stain on the table cloth, the pictures of Olivia's children—beautiful and untouched—smiling down from the walls, and finally at Olivia herself. There was no comfort to be found. "My baby tried to tell me about it, and I didn't understand what she meant."

"What did she say?" Olivia asked, to keep the young woman talking and hopefully ease some of her pain and guilt in the process.

"She said she saw Rachel taking a bath. Saw her—" Julianne motioned at her small chest, which barely made an impression beneath the bib of her corduroy overalls.

"Breasts."

Julianne dropped her hand into her lap, lowered her head, and nodded. She scarcely appeared old enough to have a driver's license, let alone be the divorced mother of a six-year-old who had just been dealt a terrible burden. "Yeah. I thought she meant she'd walked in on Rachel by accident, and I told her not to look at grownups without their clothes on anymore. I scolded her for something that wasn't even her fault."

Before Olivia could say that children were resilient and quick to forgive, and that mothers made a lot of mistakes too—a few days ago, she'd sent Noah to his room, only to find out later that it was Jesse who had peeled all the bananas and fed them to the dogs, who then had diarrhea the rest of the evening—Julianne had another revelation.

"Oh God, and those behavior changes you mentioned. Now that I think about it, she has had a couple accidents lately. Once at the park and once with . . . with her daddy. She practically potty-trained herself at eighteen months, so I thought it was a bit strange . . . "

Julianne's gaze went out of focus and she fidgeted absently with Olivia's watch, which had become a talisman of sorts in the months since its repair. Everyone was drawn to it, as if the new crystal and inscribed band ( _A little pretty for my city girl - Love, Me_ ) were imbued with a kind of magic. And who's to say they weren't? "But I figured it was the divorce and the new school. My husband— ex-husband and I split up last summer. He moved back in with his parents, until he finds a new place. Rachel lives there too, that's how she . . . got her hands on Jilly."

The description, while apt, sent a small shudder down Olivia's spine. Too many sickos out there knew how to get their hands on other people's children. Far too many. "And you may very well be right about that. Those changes could be causing the accidents."

"Or it could be because her aunt is doing perverted things to her." Julianne balled her slender fingers into a fist, pressing it over her heart like a patriot during a national anthem. "I never liked that woman. She's always been a little . . . off. I just thought I was being paranoid. That I should just put up with her for Robert's sake, and for Jilly's. God, I'm so stupid."

It struck Olivia how closely she identified with the younger woman, then. She had felt the same way after falling for Sheila Porter's act years earlier. Every warning bell imaginable went off in Olivia's head when the woman inserted herself into the Benson family—modest as it was, in those days—but Olivia had ignored the unease and suspicion, not wanting her own trust issues to prevent Noah from having someone else in his life. Someone besides an inadequate, selfish mother who would never let anyone else have him. And if she were being completely honest, it had been nice, for a while, to feel as though she had a friend. Maybe even a sister. There _was_ a slight resemblance . . .

So stupid.

"No." She shook her head firmly, gave Julianne's hand a reassuring squeeze. "You're not stupid, Jules. Men and women like Rachel, who prey on children, are very good at deception. It's how they get away with their crimes, and it's not a reflection of your ability as a mother in any way. The fact that she knew precisely how to manipulate your daughter tells me she's probably done this before, with other children. Probably fooled a lot of parents."

Though Julianne nodded understanding, it was clear she didn't entirely believe Olivia's assignment of who was to blame. Few parents did. But she looked up with such open anguish and a desperate need for guidance, it tore at Olivia's heart. "What should I do? How do I protect Jillian now?"

Finally, a question for which Olivia could provide a direct and—she hoped—satisfactory answer. "Well, first off, Jillian should not spend anymore time alone with her aunt. I'm not sure what the custody arrangement is with your ex-husband, but if you can't trust him to keep Jillian away from Rachel, don't let her go back to that house. And if he wants to contest it, I'll vouch for you in court."

"He won't. He barely sees her, as is." Julianne shrugged her birdlike shoulders limply. "He can't afford to take me to court, anyway."

Rather than mention that custody battles were some of the ugliest proceedings she witnessed, and that grandparents often supplied funds, Olivia gave a noncommittal hum. They would cross that bridge when, if, they came to it. "All the same. I'm happy to help in any way that I can. And if you want to file a report against Rachel, which I would recommend, you can stop by my precinct as soon as possible. Amanda and I won't be able to take your statement, since we're personally involved, but one of my other officers will work with you. They're both excellent at their job, and I can give them a heads-up that you're coming in?"

A nod. A sniff. Olivia hurried through the next part, ripping off the band-aid. "You should also have Jillian examined by a doctor. He'll be able to rule out any physical trauma. And document injuries if they are found."

Julianne blanched, her head now ticking up and down by rote. She gazed blankly at the business card Olivia retrieved from a catchall drawer in the nearby hutch, handed over after she scribbled her cell number on the back.

"And it's a good idea to get Jilly some counseling," Olivia said, easing into the dining chair again, so the overwhelmed young mother didn't have to stare up at her. "It might help her sort out her feelings and deal with what she experienced. I can text you a list of some superb child psychologists. I know a few of them personally, and I would feel comfortable sending my kids to any one of them."

"Really?" Julianne enveloped the business card between her palms, as if she were holding priceless treasure, and turned a shell-shocked look to Olivia. "Did someone hurt your kids too?"

"No, I . . . " Olivia pressed her lips together tightly, censoring herself out of habit. For so long she had denied or buried her childhood memories of the "close calls" with her mother's bedfellows ( _Liv, that was sexual abuse_ , Amanda's emphatic voice corrected in her ear, _You gotta start calling it what is,_ _darlin'_ ) that when they came flooding back during a therapy session with Lindstrom, it was like experiencing them for the first time all over again.

Since then, she had disclosed to her wife the fondling, the attempted rapes, and being forced to stroke a strange man's erect penis, but with Lindstrom she had shared only fragments of each encounter. He owned too much of her story already, and lately she noticed herself choosing her words too carefully around him. Sometimes she even skipped a session on purpose, just to avoid the exhaustion of all that soul-baring. To be honest, she was considering finding a new therapist altogether.

But that sorrowful expression on Julianne's face. Olivia couldn't overlook that. "Not my kids, no. But I went through some things myself, as a child, and I wish someone had been there— I wish my mother had gotten me help."

Herself, too.

"Oh. I'm sorry." Flustered, Julianne tried to wave away her previous question. She fanned at her watery eyes with the edge of Olivia's card. "I shouldn't have asked that. It's none of my business. I just feel so . . . inadequate. I don't know about any of this stuff. And you're so— so kind and informed."

"It's okay," Olivia said, laying a hand briefly on Julianne's knee. "I've been doing this a really long time. You're already taking the appropriate steps just by believing your daughter and doing what's best for her. Now, I think the most important thing is to make sure she knows that what happened to her was not her fault and she has nothing to be ashamed of. Have you talked to her about body safety at all?"

"Body safety?"

"Good touch, bad touch. Stranger danger. There's been a lot of different names for it over the years."

Unless you were born prior to the 1980s, then you were just screwed.

"Oh, um, I tried, but I didn't really know what to say. I just told her not to let boys see or touch where her bathing suit covers, and I gave her a coloring book about it." Julianne fretted her lower lip until it was bloodless. "Was that not right?"

"No, that's good. It's a good start." Olivia offered an encouraging smile. "Maybe you could go over it with her again and include grownups and big kids of both genders, and mention not looking at or touching them in the bathing suit area, either. It helps to be candid. Stay calm, call body parts what they are. Say penis and vagina. If Jillian sees that you're comfortable talking about it, she'll be much more likely to come to you in the future with questions about sex and her body."

Julianne flushed brightly, this time fanning her cheeks. "I don't know if I can do that. Look at me, I'm already a nervous wreck. Do you think maybe you could—"

The request broke off there, and Julianne tried dismissing it with a wave, as she had done a moment earlier.

"Would you like me to talk to Jillian?" Olivia supplied.

"Could you? I'm sure you'd say everything so much better than me."

"Of course. I was actually planning on reviewing that topic with my kids, anyway. Jillian's welcome to join in. You, too. It might help you feel a little more at ease, and show Jillian it's okay to discuss those things with you." Olivia glanced at her watch, that talisman of time and proof of love she carried with her, always. "They should be getting back soon. We can do it then, if you're free?"

"I am." And after an awkward handshake that Julianne initiated, her face reddening another shade or two: "Thank you, Captain Benson. Olivia."

"You're welcome, Jules." Olivia patted the hand in hers, warmly.

**. . .**


	3. Part 3

**. . .**

"How'd it go?" asked a groggy voice, muffled against the pillow. Amanda was not a napper by nature, at least not before she had an avocado growing in her belly, and she always awoke from the siestas sounding mildly stoned. She looked the part too, when she rolled over and faced Olivia, mussed and squinting. "Sorry I pooped out on you. The park really did a number on me."

Olivia smiled down at her sleepy, adorable wife and took a seat beside her on the edge of the bed, careful not to bounce the mattress. Since the day they found out the insemination was a success, she had tried not to handle Amanda with kid gloves, but she could no more resist a little TLC than she could resist leaning in for a kiss to the top of that fuzzy blonde head. "I told you not to overdo it, silly girl," she said lightly, lovingly, then drew back to gaze at Amanda in the same tone. "It went pretty well. I think Julianne was traumatized, but everyone else took it in stride. Well, Noah did blush a few times, poor thing. Tilly can't pronounce vagina yet. She says it _regina_ , like the city in Saskatchewan. Maybe she's Canadian, eh?"

Amanda giggled at that. She had agreed somewhat reluctantly to giving the kids a vocabulary lesson on anatomy, but she'd seen how important it was to Olivia, who took her aside and requested her blessing to deliver the presentation minutes after she returned from the park.

For the most part, their parenting styles were compatible and they split the duties evenly; nevertheless, clear-cut roles had emerged in the year since they moved in together—Olivia was nurturer and instructor, Amanda was comrade and disciplinarian. Occasionally they squabbled, if Olivia thought a punishment too harsh, or Amanda thought one too lenient (Olivia had a tendency to excuse bad behavior, according to her wife). And Amanda wanted the children to remain innocent and carefree, for as long as possible. An admirable goal, and one Olivia shared, but she also wanted them prepared and safe. No matter how much fun they might have, you didn't send your kids off to ride their bike without a helmet, just like you didn't send them out into the world without the ability to say _no_.

Adapting to those differences, the kids had begun relying on Amanda for permission, even advising Olivia she "better ask Mama first" whenever big decisions, such as going for ice cream after dinner or an extension on bedtime, were being made. Olivia didn't mind the arrangement; she was the parent they sought out when they needed truth. _I'm gonna ask Mommy about that one_ , Jesse often said, whenever she felt Amanda's knowledge of a particular subject—who the Statue of Liberty was, whether or not unicorns existed, why Noah and Tilly had curls but she didn't—was suspect.

And Olivia's little beastie had been out in full force during the body safety lecture. "Also, our middle child may or may not be under the impression that one or both of us has a penis," she said, delivering the news somberly, though she couldn't keep the amusement from twinkling in her eyes.

"Oh, Lord." Amanda, in the midst of trying to sit up, abandoned the effort and flumped back onto the pillow fortress behind her. "I'm afraid to even ask," she said, and indeed, there was apprehension on her pretty, storybook princess features. She was also trying very hard not to laugh.

"Well, she was playing her usual twenty-one questions game . . . "

"But why? Why, Mommy? Why?" Amanda imitated in a childish timbre.

"Mm-hmm. That's the one. And after about ten minutes, just when I thought they were getting bored of repeating the word 'penis' over and over and _over_ again, Jess raised her hand like she was in class and asked, 'But what does a penis _do_ exactly?'" Unable to hold back any longer, Olivia laughed aloud at the memory. It had taken all her self control not to do that the first time. "I swear, she said it just like that. Oh my God, Amanda, I thought I was gonna lose it."

"You? Badass Rollins-Benson? Captain Freckleface? Nah, I don't buy it." Amanda grinned from ear to ear, and reached out to toy with the end of the long braid she had fashioned in Olivia's hair that morning, after breakfast. She lashed it playfully a few times, like a small brown whip. "But why does she think _we_ have schlongs, is what I wanna know?"

"Schlongs? Really?"

"Sorry. Meat thermometers? Pocket rockets? The Bone Ranger?" Amanda struck thoughtful, comedic poses after each euphemism, a devilish glint in her blue-heaven eyes.

Rolling her own earthy brown eyes—over the years, they had been described as _serious_ , _studious_ , _sensual_ , but her favorite was _soulful_ —Olivia waited for the phallic litany to conclude. Amanda snickered a moment more, then assumed a straight face and nodded soberly.

Too soberly. They both snorted in unison and laughed until Olivia waved her hand, signaling that she was making a real effort to gather herself this time. "Well, I wasn't going to tell her what they do _exactly_ , so I just said they help make babies . . . " Here, she lowered her hand to Amanda's belly, stroking it warmly. The gentle slope beneath her palm, barely detectable by anyone but Olivia (and Amanda, who groaned every time she put on pants), filled her with such profound and immense love, it took her breath away.

"Ohh," Amanda said knowingly, and rested her hand on the back of Olivia's. By now it was habit, cradling their little girl that way, and sometimes they stayed in that position for an hour or more. Olivia often woke up spooning her wife, palm splayed on her abdomen. Best of all, Amanda didn't mind it a bit; she was usually the one who pulled Olivia's hand into place. "And because we're having a baby, she thinks one of us is packing?"

"Bingo. It was getting a little too close to The Talk for Jules and Jilly's comfort, so I smoothed it over as best I could." Olivia angled her head in apology, shoulders bunched, lips folded into a sheepish smile. "But I think we might need to discuss the birds and bees with Miss Jesse Eileen soon. The basics, at least."

Amanda lolled her head restlessly, dramatically, on the pillows. She looked like an Old Hollywood damsel, taken to fever in her latest cinematic epic. "Ugh. I'll let you take point on that one again, darlin'. I just can't— Hey. What's wrong?"

Olivia hadn't even felt her smile slip, or noticed the tears welling in her eyes, until Amanda's voice rose in mild alarm. She swiped her fingertips hastily across her cheeks, though the moisture had yet to escape, and shook her head, prepared to dismiss the sudden wave of sadness. Now she knew how Julianne had felt, sitting there denying her emotions after hearing the worst news a mother could hear.

 _Someone hurt your child_.

"How are we ever supposed to keep them safe, Amanda?" she asked in a whisper, cupping her wife's belly and their daughter (for she was now quite certain this child was a girl, even if they didn't find out the sex for another couple of weeks) protectively in her hand, as if that would keep little Avi from listening in. "Our babies."

If she'd needed any more proof that Amanda's pregnancy hormones were in full swing, the detective's instantly dewy eyes would have sufficed. She hadn't meant to blurt the question or bring down the mood, hadn't really known it was bothering her until the quiet moment with her wife and baby.

"Can you give Olivia a hug and tell her thank you?" Julianne had requested of her daughter, prior to leaving the apartment half an hour ago. And before Olivia could say that wasn't necessary—Jillian should only hug people she felt comfortable hugging—the child had wrapped both arms around her, thanked her shyly, and waved her close to confide, "I love you," in her ear with utter conviction.

It had been difficult watching the little girl go, her fate uncertain. And what of Olivia's own children, the ones whose fates she helped shape? Whose fates could be shaped by others, as well. On occasion, that lack of control, of _knowing_ , was too big and frightening to bear. What if someday someone (man or woman, because women did those things too) got their hands on her little girls? Her boy?

Her stomach hurt just thinking about it.

"Aww, baby, that poor kid really got to you, didn't she? Come here." Amanda took Olivia lightly by the elbow, urging her down towards the pillows. She hooked an arm behind Olivia's head when it came to rest beside her, the other arm looping around Olivia's shoulders, pulling her into a safe, snug embrace. "Probably got you thinkin' on some of the stuff you went through as a kid, huh? Anything you wanna talk about?"

Catching herself on the verge of downplaying her feelings— _I'm fine_ was on the tip of her tongue—she took a deep breath instead, allowing herself a moment of introspection. She had to stop minimizing her past experiences if she ever wanted to come to terms with them. She had learned that from Lindstrom and from another amateur head-shrinker by the name of Dr. Amanda Rollins-Benson, whose reluctance to try therapy was gradually changing into a mission for recovery, hers and Olivia's.

Amanda had even started reminding her of (healthy) coping strategies, forgotten somewhere on the long and winding road to healing, and pointed out the negative patterns Olivia sometimes didn't realize she resorted to: self-denial (of everything from food to anger), hyperfocus on work, and that ever-present need to just be _fine_.

Still, Olivia had already told her wife about the brushes with sexual violence in her childhood and she didn't want to rehash them now. Not while Amanda was carrying their child. Their perfect, untouched, untainted baby girl. So, she gave the closest, most truthful response that came to mind. "Yeah, I guess she did get to me. She needed someone to protect her, like I . . . I just— I just don't want to make the same mistakes with our little ones that my mother made with me."

"Oh, well that's simple enough to fix." Amanda anointed Olivia's forehead with a brisk kiss, like a fairy godmother granting a wish. "You won't. You're the best parent a kid—or four—could ask for. And don't forget you've got me as backup, little darlin'. With you teaching 'em to be as fierce and fearless as you are, and me kicking anybody's ass who looks at 'em funny, they'll come out all right. Nothing's gonna happen to them, long as we're around."

"That simple, huh?"

"Yup." Another kiss on the forehead followed the first, this one warmer, lingering. Amanda drew back slowly and gazed at Olivia with her heart in her eyes. "They're gonna be okay, Liv. We're all going to be okay, I promise. You're preparing them in a way your mama never did for you. You give them all the love they could ask for, and then some. Take it from me, I know how amazing it is to be loved by you."

Olivia sighed, not with exasperation or despair, but with something close to contentment. To peace. Sometimes, with Amanda, it really was that simple. All Olivia had to do was trust it. "Charmer," she murmured, and tilted her face up for a tender kiss on the lips. It grew steadily more passionate, their hands wandering, caressing, Amanda's warm, supple mouth drawing her ever forward, until her worries were left behind. Like chasing down a will-o'-the-wisp, that kiss.

"Okay, come on," said Amanda, breathless and sultry-eyed—and sultry-lipped—when they parted. She patted Olivia's stomach, like it was the one busy growing a human. "Whip it out."

"Huh?"

Flashing a naughty grin, Amanda hooked her finger in the waistband of Olivia's jeans and tugged. "Your teeny weenie. I wanna see it. You've kept it so well hidden, I didn't even notice . . ."

Tsking loudly, Olivia pretended to push Amanda's hand away in disgust. "What makes you so sure _I'm_ the one with the penis? It could just as easily be you. And to think, all this time I've been blaming Noah for leaving the toilet seat up."

"Huh-uh. I'm the one knocked up and turning into a water buffalo here." Amanda rubbed her belly as if it were far more ample than it actually was. "That means I got the lady parts, and you got the rama lama ding dong. So, let's see it. I'll show you my _regina_."

Pronounced like a true Canuck. "No, thanks, I haven't renewed my passport," Olivia said, unable to hold in the laughter any longer, her entire body quaking with it, and Amanda's, as the detective rolled her onto her back and climbed astride for a more persistent kiss.

"Sure you're up for this?" she asked, in the fleeting seconds when Amanda's mouth wasn't on hers, hot and rapacious.

"Oh, I'm up." Amanda whipped the baggy PINK t-shirt over her head and flung it aside, like Fred Astaire flicking a fedora in the intro to a lively dance number. She paused suddenly, with hound dog intensity, an ear trained towards the living room. "Fuck. Are the kids—"

"I put Tilly down for a nap. Noah and Jesse are watching _Brave_ for the five millionth time." Olivia unfurled a wicked smile of her own.

"Headphones?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Best wife ever," Amanda proclaimed, and dove in with complete abandon.

**. . .**

**THE END**


End file.
